Memory
by ZAFO
Summary: AU. When a strange man is found in Trost, Mikasa joins the Survey Corps of her own initiative—and suddenly, a world beyond the walls doesn't seem so far-fetched anymore. Mikasa x Jean


**Memory**

By ZAFO

 **A/N:** I like multi-tasking; I'm restless. Literally everything I have on FF is being edited, revamped, and updated at the moment—nothing is abandoned. I promise.

 **Summary:** AU. When a strange man is found in Trost, Mikasa joins the Survey Corps of her own initiative—and suddenly, a world beyond the walls doesn't seem so far-fetched anymore. Mikasa x Jean

* * *

—

 **Chapter 1** : Lost Tongues

Mikasa had Eren, and she also had Armin, but it just wasn't the same. They were her life now—especially Eren—but they wouldn't have been, not if her parents had lived.

It pained her, really, to realize how alone she truly was. As she watched her fellow trainees toast rambunctiously in the run-down tavern they had overtaken, Mikasa wondered distantly what her life would have been like, if those scumbags had never murdered her loved ones.

' _But I have Eren now,'_ she thought _'I have Armin.'_

Mikasa repeated this thought like a mantra, like a prayer, as she gripped her mug of beer listlessly.

Eren and Armin paid little attention. Not that they meant to, of course, but it was inevitable. Her childhood friends were so vibrant—so normal. They fit into society, like the pieces of a puzzle, and she didn't.

She never had.

At the moment, Eren was nose-to-nose in yet another argument with Jean, snarling like a wild animal, while a shaky Armin was being pressured by Connie into chugging a keg of alcohol. Everyone was about to be ranked soon, and the party was meant to celebrate. All her peers were laughing, singing, having fun—and there she was, in the corner, being dark and morose. What was wrong with her?

"What is wrong with her?" She heard, right on cue, from an unfamiliar voice nearby.

Mikasa made a valiant attempt not to wince. The conversation carried on in whispers, but she always did have good hearing.

"Dunno." Said someone else. "Maybe she just can't help it, you know?"

"Whaddaya mean by that?"

"Well, just _look at her."_

Mikasa stared hard into her mug of alcohol. The voices carried on.

"She's different. She _looks_ different, right? I hear she's an Oriental."

' _Half.'_ Mikasa thought bitterly.

"What's an Oriental?" Another voice asked in wonder.

"An Oriental is—well, an Oriental. A different race of people! My grandfather said, long ago, that they were known for being quiet and conservative..."

"…and depressing?" Someone snickered.

Mikasa had enough. She stood up quickly; the 'whispers' stopped abruptly once she began to make her exit. She could feel the horrified, embarrassed, and even _pitying_ glances upon her as she walked away.

"I'm leaving." She murmured, hoping that her words would carry over the cacophony, but Eren and Armin never heard.

Cold air blasted into her face as Mikasa stepped out into the night. The tavern door slammed shut behind her.

Finally alone, Mikasa was free to sag her shoulders as she meandered down the beaten streets. Naturally, the journey invited an excess of curious glances from the people around her. She scowled behind her scarf as she walked.

Mikasa could readily admit she was strange looking, sure, but the attention she commanded at every standstill was unwanted, and also highly suffocating. Mikasa was sick of it. She was only just a person—the scar on her wrist meant nothing, not anymore.

Thoughts of escape hounded her as she rounded the corner of a particularly wretched alleyway. As Mikasa began to step deeper into it, however, echoes of a muffled scuffle reached her ears.

The soldier shifted immediately into a defensive position and fingered her swords. The dark of the shadows hid her figure well, and from what Mikasa could see on the other end, three silhouettes were tangled ahead.

One body lay limp against the rough, cold cobblestone; two burlier figures above him argued animatedly as they held him down.

"Can't believe it!" Cried one. "You—you said it was a fuckin' _girl!"_

"Don't blame me!" The other hissed. "I got the intel from Frithiof—he said it _was!"_

A growl of exasperation.

"Great, just great! Boss is gonna skin us for this! Fuckin' useless!"

"Oh shut up, will you? Just look at him! If you squint—he looks like a girl anyway!"

"Are you blind? There's a fuckin' Adam's apple right there!"

"Are you stupid? He's an _Oriental!_ Dick or not, _some_ pervert's gonna pay big cash for him!"

Mikasa felt her blood freeze at that.

' _Oriental?'_

But she was supposed to be the last one. She thought she was the last one.

Wasn't she?

"We only sell the girls right away!" A voice argued. "Boss said to run all the guys by him first!"

"I'm just _saying—_ FUCK! You don't hafta yell at me!"

Human traffickers.

Mikasa gripped her swords with resolution. Her eyes narrowed.

' _ **Murderers.'**_

Long suppressed memories flickered briefly before she made the swift decision to kill them. They deserved no less—she would hold no hesitation, not this time around.

Armin, really, was the only one of them who ever thought about things like _ethics_ or _morality_ anymore. Mikasa only cared about justice.

With vengeance, Mikasa shot her 3DMG gear onto the wall, maneuvering so savagely through that the grappling claws sounded like machine guns as they blasted out. The men below her barely had the chance to scream before she landed near them, drawing her swords out deftly to pierce their necks. Her cuts were deep and unforgiving.

Consequently, their bloodied corpses toppled over the very person they'd been holding down. Mikasa withdrew her weapons, then stepped forward, leaning down to roll the bodies off.

The victim underneath—the young Oriental—lay unconscious. Blue and purple bruises marred the whole of his face, but that was not what had Mikasa staring.

No, it was his features.

He was pale—paler than her—and his short, soft hair was colored dark as night. He possessed a slender, almost delicate figure, and though his eyes were closed, Mikasa could tell that they had the same slant to them as her.

Her breath hitched.

There was no doubt about it. This man looked just like her mother. Mikasa had always been a rational girl, but the blinding hope that flooded through her then made her imagination run wild.

He was one of her people, one of her mother's. He was a full-blooded Oriental. He was an Outsider too.

He was… he could be... he could be _family._

' _An uncle?'_ She theorized, her thoughts racing. _'No, maybe a cousin. A second cousin? A third?'_

It didn't matter. She had to get him out of there. She had to get him to safety.

Mikasa carefully hauled the man over her back ran away; she didn't look back. Those bodies could rot.

They'd never know it was her.

* * *

—

Mikasa knew the trainees would party until late, and the safest place she readily had access to were the sleeping barracks.

She slipped into Eren's cabin without hesitation, knowing that he and Armin would keep a secret. Their roommates—Jean, Marco, and Connie—were unfamiliar, but Jean held something akin to affection to her, and she was confident that he could control the other two if she were kind to him.

Mikasa shut the door behind her, then lay the foreign man gently upon Eren's bed. His injuries didn't seem too bad. Admittedly, his harsh bruises were rather unsightly, but Mikasa had seen worse—much worse—and so she knew he'd be alright. In any case, his breathing was peaceful and even, and when she carefully touched his wounds, he didn't wince.

He did, however, stir awake, when Mikasa's feather-light touch had finally reached his forehead.

Coal black eyes blinked open sleepily, and Mikasa's hand shot back as if it were on fire. Nonetheless, his gaze trailed slowly over to her, and the hope and wonder that emanated from him—once he realized what she was—was practically palpable.

"It's...been so long since I've seen another Asian face." He rasped.

"Asian?" Mikasa whispered dubiously, unfamiliar with the term.

The man continued. "What are you?" He asked, with a hint of sadness. "中文? **ໄທລາວ** **?** Việt? 日本語?" (1)

Mikasa recognized none of them.

"ภาษาไทย? 한국어? Hmong? Қазақ?"

She didn't understand. She didn't know what he was saying.

At the lost expression on her face, the man stopped, though it seemed as if he could keep on going. Mikasa felt her face redden in shame. She shifted back, fearing that she had somehow disappointed the only other Oriental still living.

The stranger, however, merely gazed back at her, his coal-black eyes aged and patient.

"It's okay," he murmured. "I have a feeling you are one of mine. Tell me your name."

His voice was soothing, and Mikasa gave it readily.

"Mikasa," she answered quietly. "Mikasa Ackermann."

He smiled then, and the warmness that seeped from him seemed to light up the whole room.

"I knew it. Japanese—just like me."

' _Japanese?'_

Excitement tinged her confusion at the foreign term. Her mother had only taught her bits and pieces of their culture before dying, but this man seemed to know all that she had missed.

Mikasa couldn't believe it; she could almost cry.

"Tell me your name." She pleaded, gripping the edge of the bed with supressed eagerness.

The man gave a great sigh of relief, then offered it to her in a low and loving tone.

"My name is… Kiku Honda."

* * *

—

 **A/N:** Man, I always felt bad for Mikasa. It's tough to be a minority—and that's the fact of it, no matter where you are. Or, at least, that's what I've experienced…

(1) All these came from google translate. I was trying to find the respective characters for nationalities (Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, Japanese, Thai, Laotian, Hmong, Kazakh) but who knows? Tell me the right ones if you do!

Until next time!


End file.
